


what if what i want (is to stay)

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Jaskier is a small town boy, M/M, Then feelings happen!, and Geralt is a powerful spirit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24593086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: This was for the village. For the safety of his people. But just as he didn’t feel fear, he also didn’t feel much fondness for them at the moment. They were tossing him to the sharks, but it wasn’t a shark at all. It was the great White Wolf. The spirit that had protected their village for generations. Or so they said; sometimes Jaskier wondered if the spirit existed or if this was just their fucked up way of purging the village. Regardless, he had a duty to do and he wouldn’t back out, now. He knew if he did, someone else would just take his place.Once every five years, a sacrifice had to be made, and Jaskier had almost been waiting for this. Like he knew this would happen./Jaskier is the newest sacrifice to an entity that doesn't exist, the White Wolf.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 167





	what if what i want (is to stay)

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier knew he was likely to die and honestly, he probably should’ve felt fear or mourned for the life he would never get, still fresh-faced at only eighteen, but all he felt was numb. Like he was moving through the motions expected of him out of instinct and nothing else.

He stood, facing the forest, surrounded by the whole village.

He was wearing only a thin shirt and trousers. No need for anything else, really, since he’d probably be dead before the night was over. The sky was clear, warm on his skin.

His mother approached slowly. He didn’t look at her, even as she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

This was for the village. For the safety of his people. But just as he didn’t feel fear, he also didn’t feel much fondness for them at the moment. They were tossing him to the sharks, but it wasn’t a shark at all. It was the great White Wolf. The spirit that had protected their village for generations. Or so they said; sometimes Jaskier wondered if the spirit existed or if this was just their fucked up way of purging the village. Regardless, he had a duty to do and he wouldn’t back out, now. He knew if he did, someone else would just take his place.

Once every five years, a sacrifice had to be made, and Jaskier had almost been waiting for this. Like he knew this would happen.

Without a word, his mother pulled away and rejoined the others. Well, that was that. He held his head high, walking to the edge of the forest. His lute thumped against his back. If he was going to die, she would be with him. He tried to smile and found that he couldn’t. He finally turned to face the others.

“Well,” he said with a little shrug. “Goodbye.”

His mother wouldn’t look at him, now. One of the elders rubbed her back as she sobbed into her hands. Jaskier thought to say something—“Why are you crying? You, _any_ of you, could stop this”—but he didn’t. He knew they wouldn’t listen.

They believed in the White Wolf, true or not. He couldn’t change centuries of tradition.

Taking a deep breath, he turned away and entered the forest. The myths varied, as myths had a tendency to do. Most said the White Wolf appeared as a wolf, the reason for his title, white fur and piercing eyes.

But others said he appeared as a man, entirely human except for the same piercing eyes.

Those details didn’t matter much, in the grand scheme of things, because the point of the tradition wasn’t to enter the forest and toss a few treats at the spirit, wolf-shaped or human-shaped. No, it was to _be_ the treat.

“Your sacrifice will honor us all,” he muttered as he walked, leaves crunching under his feet. “Sure.”

Jaskier didn’t just have his lute with him, but a dagger tucked away in his boot. Not for the spirit, on the off-chance it was real. Even he wasn’t prideful enough to think he could win against a spirit. The dagger was for him. To take his own life.

Because if the spirit was a myth and only that, he still couldn’t return. His people would shun him and send someone else, again and again. There was no ending it unless his life was taken; didn’t matter if it was at the hands of the spirit or himself.

At least he could save the next sucker five years.

Jaskier didn’t _enjoy_ the thought of jamming his own dagger into the flesh of his neck, of course, but he was prepared for it. Because he knew there was no spirit in the forest. He had played in these exact woods many times as a child. He had never seen or felt anything. They were just trees, like any other trees. Just dirt, like any other dirt.

They put their faith in some nonexistent spirit because they were too cowardly to accept the truth.

That life was just that: _life_. There was nothing more, or after. People were cruel, and the earth wasn’t much better. Jaskier had mentioned this, once, to his mother and she had slapped a hand over his mouth. He had never mentioned it again.

He supposed there was no harm in the whole faith thing. But there was harm in _this_. How they chose to celebrate their faith. Jaskier remembered being young and seeing—for the first time—one of the sacrifices. She had been like him, newly eighteen, as was required by the myth.

She had been sent to her death and for what? A false sense of security and safety?

Jaskier pushed through some low-hanging branches and blinked, once. “Oh,” he said, eyes wide. “This is new.”

He had been in this forest many times as a young boy and yet he had never seen this—a stream, rushing with sparkling water. It was hard to explain, having missed this as a young boy, but not impossible. His mother _had_ always interrupted his adventures, cutting them short, heatedly scolding him for disrespecting the forest.

Regardless, it was perfectly convenient. He glanced around, making sure there were no animals, before approaching the stream. He dipped his hand in it, sighing. It was cool against his warm skin. Not only that, it was beautiful. The water was clear and he could see underneath to the rocky bottom. Colorful fish swam quickly around his hand.

“At least I will die surrounded by beauty,” he said.

Shifting, he pulled his hand out of the water and tugged his bag off. His lute—etched with dandelions—taunted him. If there was one thing he would miss, it would be playing. He shook his head and opened his bag.

Pulling out a container, he opened it. The smell of smoked pork, his favorite. At least he would also die with a full, satisfied stomach.

“To the White Wolf,” he said, lifting the container to the sky.

Nothing happened, of course.

“Yeah,” he grumbled around a mouthful of meat. “That’s what I thought.”

-

Jaskier played for a bit, lazily strumming his lute, before deciding to sleep. Even if the White Wolf didn’t exist, other animals did and he knew he would be most vulnerable in his sleep. If one of those animals decided to sneak up on him and take him out—well, that’d just be less work for him, and most likely far less traumatizing.

With no blanket, or bedroll, he curled up in the dirt and closed his eyes.

His last thought before dozing off was of his mother: _traitor_ , he thought bitterly, _just like the rest of them._

-

He was startled awake by a loud splash. Sitting up, he realized it was dark, the stars shining brightly in the sky. His eyes flickered around, but he couldn’t see much. To be expected, obviously. He stumbled to his feet. “Hello?”

It was silent again, just the quiet chirp of crickets.

Jaskier frowned. “Stupid,” he grumbled as he went to turn away—but that was when he saw it: a blur of white in the distance, quickly darting between some trees and out of sight. He didn’t think he should be able to see it, given the time of night, but the whiteness was almost glowing, much like the stars in the sky.

He blinked, rubbing his eyes. He was seeing things. Obviously.

Or it was just a white wolf. A _normal_ white wolf. There was no way it was a rabbit or a bear; it had been too big for a rabbit, too small for a bear.

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek, waiting. But—surely if he could catch the wolf, maybe that would be the evidence he needed to convince the others the myth was just that: a _myth_ , not to be trusted. He moved without thinking, snatching his bag up.

He rushed down the stream, following it. He almost tripped a few times, over roots or rocks, but he made it to the spot he had seen the wolf disappear through without too much trouble. He swallowed, a lump in his throat.

Now or never.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed the branches out of the way and stepped through, heart pounding.

Suddenly it wasn’t dark. There was a small clearing, brightly lit. By what, he didn’t know. It was still night and he didn’t see any lanterns or fires. His eyes fell on the opening of a cave, decent-sized, on the other side of the clearing.

Jaskier had found the wolf’s home from the looks of it. There were flowers growing around the opening of the cave, nearly glowing.

Jaskier chalked it up to— _something_. Lack of sleep, maybe. He leaned down carefully and pulled his dagger out of his boot, clutching the hilt. The palm of his hand was sweaty, but he couldn’t surrender so easily.

Slowly he approached the cave, taking light steps.

Truthfully he didn’t enjoy the idea of killing an innocent wolf, but if he knew anything, now, it was that sacrifices had to be made. He could save many lives at the cost of one. His own, even. Jaskier took a shaky breath.

He was just a few feet from the cave when suddenly something came crashing out of it, snarling wildly. He saw teeth, sharp and wet, too close for comfort. Jaskier dropped his dagger, eyes widening, and scrambled back.

“Wait, wait,” he said as if the animal could understand him.

The wolf howled at the moon. Jaskier turned to run, but he didn’t get far before he was being tackled to the ground. Groaning, he rolled over in the dirt. He didn’t open his eyes, at first, preparing for the worst. But there was no pain.

He opened his eyes, just a crack, gasping loudly.

The wolf was gone. Now, a man stood over him. White hair, cascading down his shoulders in waves. Piercing eyes, yellow with dark slits. His mouth was twisted in a frown. He was handsome despite it. One of the most handsome men he had ever seen.

If all that wasn’t shocking enough, he was entirely nude and shameless about it. Jaskier’s eyes flickered briefly to his crotch before snapping back up, heart skipping a beat.

“Um.”

He narrowed his eyes, lifting a hand. Jaskier didn’t know what he planned to do, and he had no interest in finding out. “Wait,” he exclaimed. “I’m not—I’m not a threat. Or whatever.”

“I know,” he said, finally speaking. His voice was gruff, rough and hoarse. Jaskier wondered if he talked much. His hand fell. “Come with me.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared inside the cave without looking back. Jaskier pointedly did not look at his retreating backside. Right, well. He didn’t exactly have many options, did he? Standing on shaky legs, he dusted off his trousers and squared his shoulders before following him.


End file.
